


He said "I'm gonna shoot the perfect bullseye"

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Sitting, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 07:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14467818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Illya arrives back in their room ahead of schedule, and finds Gaby wearing a pink shower cap and a towel.He loses the run of the afternoon after that.





	He said "I'm gonna shoot the perfect bullseye"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TobermorianSass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/gifts), [EssayOfThoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/gifts), [theMightyPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/gifts).



> Written under the working title "Face-sitting in a time of war"
> 
> Actual title from "Cupid" by the Big Moon

It all comes to a head in Geneva. Neutral territory. Fitting.

Illya returns to their room perhaps ten minutes earlier than agreed, because he caught sight of their mark's valet in the lobby of the hotel. He isn't sure if it's a coincidence, or if it's a risk, but either way he didn't want to take the chance of being caught.

And so: Gaby emerges from the shower, her hair gathered up in an ugly pink shower cap, wearing only a towel.

"Ah," he says, and instead of leaving once more, he finds himself leaning back against the door. He should leave. They have been dancing around this for months now, since that almost-kiss in Rome, but Gaby has seemed content to continue dancing, and so Illya has indulged her. This is not dancing. This is the sunset cutting through the drapes over the French doors onto the balcony to shine on the damp of Gaby's skin like silk, and the smooth lines of her legs below the too-short towel. 

This is Illya's pulse ticking in his ears, his breath coming a little heavy, and Gaby's soft mouth parting just slightly.

"Oh," she says. "Good afternoon."

It is August, and she has turned all to gold - her skin all bronze, her hair all caramel - and it makes her huge, dark eyes seem luminous. Ilya's spent as much time as she has in the sun, and cannot think that it has been so kind to him as it has to her.

"I saw- there were- we have to-"

She shifts, knees rubbing together, and his throat seals. Her busy hands are restless, one clutching at the knot of her towel and the other fidgeting at her side, and she is watching him very closely.

He cannot be sure, but he thinks she is staring at his mouth.

He clears his throat, and tries again.

"There are- in lobby. We must be careful."

She nods, watching his mouth. He finds himself watching hers in return, watching the pout of her lower lip as she tries to speak, and fails.

He is before her without thinking to move, hands hovering over her hips and not daring to touch her.

"Illya," she says, very quietly, and her fidgeting free hand comes up to tuck into the collar of his shirt, fingertips against his throat. Her hands are small, and very warm, and he can smell the clean scent of her soap and see the very thin ring of hazel around her dark, dark eyes.

He tugs off her shower cap, and tugs the ribbon loose from her hair to let it fall around her shoulders. 

In retaliation, she drops her towel. She is one more shade of gold now, in the paler swathe of skin that was hidden by her very elegant one-piece bathing suit while they were laying by the pool earlier in the week, watching a Nazi-sympathising banker with whose wife Cowboy has been sleeping for the better part of a fortnight.

The world goes very narrow, as narrow as her lean waist, and he fits his palm over the round swell of her hip. 

“You are wearing too many clothes,” she says, her quick, clever fingers setting to work on the buttons of his shirt. “How very rude of you,  _ Peril. _ ”

He frowns to hear her calling him that, Cowboy’s nickname for him, and leans all the way down to kiss her just to stop her saying it again.

She forgets about his shirt when the option of draping her arms lazily over his shoulders presents itself, and he finds he doesn’t mind - he will lose his clothes eventually this evening, there is no need for them to rush along.

Her mouth tastes of toothpaste, and she is more hesitant in kissing him that he would have expected - she gasps when he slides his hand around to press to her lower back, arches prettily into his embrace when he slips his tongue against hers, sighs so sweetly when he tangles his other hand into her hair.

They kiss for… A long time. A moment. He isn’t sure. Doesn’t care. He holds her close, kisses her as thoroughly as he can, and smiles into her mouth when she leans all her weight against him because of her weak knees.

“Still wearing too many clothes,” she chides, drawing away and swaying off toward the bed, to spill across the crisp white cotton like sunset. She lies on her front, kicking up her legs and crossing her ankles while she watches him over her shoulder.

Well, if she’s watching, he ought to give her something to watch.

His jacket is lightweight tweed, a beautiful cloudy grey with black leather patches on the elbows, and this he removes carefully to set over the back of the sofa nearest at hand. Gaby’s eyes follow it, one eyebrow ticking up when he folds it to reveal the bright blue lining, but she says nothing. 

Next, he sits to remove his shoes - polished black Oxfords, unremarkable save for their quality - and his socks, and the holster at his ankle that holds a tiny gun that Gaby has used more often than he has himself. Socks tucked into shoes, gun set safely on the end table by the sofa, he rises. Gaby is still watching him with shining eyes, as carefully as if he were a particularly evasive mark, and he concedes this match, and removes his cufflinks.

“If I did not know better, Agent Kuryakin,” she says, haughty as an empress despite her state of undress, “I would think you were  _ teasing _ me.”

He is, and she knows it, so he grins.

“Never, Agent Teller,” he assures her, working his shirt open as slowly as he can without it seeming unnatural. Truthfully, he  _ does  _ want to tease her a little, after all these months spent  _ dancing.  _ But his self-control, usually endless, is waning rapidly under the heat of her eyes on his skin.

“Illya,” she says, quiet and resolute. “I will cut your beautifully tailored clothes from your body if you don’t hurry up.”

That speeds him along. She isn’t a woman for idle threats, his chop-shop girl.

When he’s down to his briefs, he crosses the room to the bed. She’s still languorous and lovely, spilled across the sheets like honey, and he stretches out beside her, not touching her, but close enough to once more smell the soap on her skin.

“I think I told you to hurry,” she reminds him, reaching over to touch her fingertips to his throat again. “You do not seem to be hurrying, Illya.”

He isn’t hurrying, he’s  _ savouring,  _ but of course she is impatient.

“Tell me,” he says, “what pleases you.”

She blinks in surprise at that, and leans up on her elbows to regard him curiously. She’s beautiful like this, without her usual composure and care, and twice as lovely for it. 

“I want you,” she says, “to please me.”

And that’s all the permission he needs.

She gasps when he tugs her close, turning her onto her back to leave her shining and gorgeous beneath him. She watches him carefully as he settles himself over her, his knees outside hers, his forearms framing her face. 

“Tell me,” he says, lowering his mouth to her ear, and the hollow below it, “how to please you.”

She shivers. Beautiful.

“Kiss me,” she says, “everywhere.”

How can he deny a request that is as much a gift to him as to her?

He starts slowly, on the lean stretch of her neck when she tips her head back. She hums when he lets his tongue drag over the throb of her pulse, and when he glances up to see her face, she is smiling, her eyes heavy and mostly closed. 

He lowers one hand to fit against the lean curve of her waist. She arches a little, pressing into his touch, and he smiles against her skin before skimming his teeth over the cut of her collarbone and down, to catch on her tight nipple.

“Oh!”

He hums in response, opening his mouth to taste once more, and closes his eyes in delight when she moans, high and sweet. 

She jerks under him when he introduces his tongue, and again when he cups her other breast in his hand - so small, under his touch, so perfect for her narrow frame - and he opens his eyes just to watch her, to see the way she bites her lip. 

He closes his eyes again when she twists her hands through his hair and  _ tugs. _ Then she stops tugging, and begins  _ pushing,  _ and he moans, loud and thankful, as she shoves him down between her legs.

Spread like this, thighs wide around his shoulders, she’s exquisite. Flushed and soft, golden-pink, the sharp scent of her, the  _ shine _ of her in the late afternoon sun still slicing through the gossamer-sheer drapes. His mouth feels slack, suddenly clumsy, so he turns it to the taut skin of her inner thighs before putting it to more precise work.

That he leaves to his hands, for now. Gaby doesn’t seem to mind.

He bands one arm over her hips, holding her hard to the soft mattress, and nuzzles her thigh while he presses his thumb gently down the length of her slit. She’s so wet, so lovely, and her breathing goes sharp and uneven when he presses his thumb  _ in,  _ presses it to the firm rise of her clit.

He thinks she stops breathing, for a moment, when he rolls his thumb over her clit. He can’t be sure though, with her thighs snapping tight around his ears.

He sinks one finger into her - fuck,  _ shit,  _ she’s so  _ hot _ \- and raises his head just enough to watch for her reactions, reluctant to look away from her cunt but needing to know that he’s pleasing her.

She seems happy enough. One busy hand is pressed over her mouth, the other gripping so tight to the pillow that he’s half afraid she’ll tear the crisp cotton. Good. Let her. Let there be some sign of this passion he is lucky enough to draw out of her.

Another finger. She shouts at that, only a little muffled by her hand, and he rolls his thumb over her clit again, and again, and  _ again,  _ just for the way she shivers and arches and whines. His jaw still feels slack, so he will have to wait until she’s come once before putting his mouth on her.

Watching the flush in her cheeks deepen with every curl of his fingers into her, he decides that this is no great sacrifice. 

“Illya,” she chokes out, “Illya, I’m,  _ Illya-” _

She breaks off into German, and it’s never sounded sweeter to his ears. She clenches and flutters around his fingers, so hot and wet that he feels greedy for her all of a sudden, and he keeps on stroking very gently, until she’s finished.

“Now,” he says, “I will continue kissing you.”

He lowers his head, and barely gets to taste her on the tip of his tongue before she’s tugging on his hair - he groans, defeated, and is so distracted by that almost-taste of her that he goes easily when she pushes him onto his back.

And sits on his chest.  _ Oh. _ Yes. He can work with this.

“I want,” she says, shoving him until he shifts to lean against the pillows, and then moving so she’s straddling his shoulders, her thighs spread wide and perfect around his face, “to  _ watch _ you.”

She braces herself on the headboard, and lowers herself to his waiting mouth. 

“You have a face made for sitting on, Agent Kuryakin,” she says, airy, or perhaps breathy. He has more important considerations, just now, like the sour-sweet taste of her blooming on his tongue, or the flex of her thighs under his hands when he grabs on to steady her. His cock is so hard he thinks he might go mad, but he wouldn’t mind losing himself under Gaby’s cunt - there are many worse places to die.

She squirms when he teases out her clit to get his lips around it, and gives another of those rough, throaty shouts when he sucks hard - he could make her come just from that, and almost wants to, but there is so much else to be explored.

He wonders - would she allow him to photograph her like this? He can develop the film himself, keep it just for them - he has safety deposit boxes even Waverly does not know of, even KGB does not know of, and he would gladly fill them up with just photos of Gaby, naked and golden on white sheets.

_ Fuck.  _ She tastes so good, and the noises she makes when he sinks his tongue as deep up into her as he can reach are heavenly. She rolls her hips into his face, just right to press his nose to her clit, and startles a sudden moan out of herself with it.

So she does it again. And again. 

Illya has always prefered strong partners in bed, but he has never been used quite like this - Gaby, gorgeous Gaby, is riding his face with no consideration for anything but her own pleasure. She hasn’t touched him, has kissed him only a little - he isn’t even naked! But he’s still as close to the edge as she seems, half wanting to reach down and draw himself out of his briefs but also reluctant to take his hands off her warm skin. 

“Illya,” she says, voice hitching in her throat,  _ beautiful,  _ “Illya, what of you?”

She shifts as if to turn, and he pulls her hard down against his mouth, on fire for the taste of her. The weight of her on his chin, the heat of her covering his mouth and his nose, and the  _ sight  _ of her, the sway of her breasts from below, the stretch of her throat when her head falls back because he has turned his mouth back to her clit - how could he allow her to move? How can she think him neglected, when she has given him  _ this? _

He comes a moment before she does - thankful to still be wearing his briefs, because they will make clean up a little easier - and the way his moan of pleasure shudders up through her tips her over the edge.

When they settle themselves, she is lying alongside him, her feet thrown up over the headboard and her head somewhere near his thighs.

She is laughing, bright with joy, and he smiles all the while as he gets up to tidy himself and fetch her a cloth. She keeps on laughing as he tidies her, and as he guides her back into the bathroom, she tips against him to laugh against his skin.

“Tell me, Agent Kuryakin,” she says, looking up into his face with none of the nervousness he saw before, when first he stepped into their room. “What is the next stage of your plan?”

“To fuck you,” he says, raw now where before he was only hungry, “against the wall of the shower.”

Her arse fills his hands better than her breasts, and she bites down hard on his collarbone when he tells her so.

 

* * *

Gaby pulls on Illya’s discarded shirt over her neat linen shorts, tucking it in and folding back the cuffs four times so she can find her hands, and steps into the hall to fill back up their ice bucket. Illya has retreated to develop some of the photographs he took of her - she never imagined to be photographed that way, and wonders if it was only Illya being behind the camera that made her pulse spike, or if she is an exhibitionist at heart - and so she plans on having the room at least somewhat set to rights by the time he is done.

Napoleon is leaning against the ice machine when she reaches it, grinning so hard she feels as if she ought to be a little embarrassed.

Shame. There is  _ nothing _ embarrassing about having a man like Illya Kuryakin invested in making you come over and over again. 

“He is magnificent,” she says briskly, shoving Napoleon aside. “And if you say a  _ word _ to tease him, I will take a scissors to all your beautiful suits.”

“I can always buy more suits, Gaby,” Napoleon says cheerfully. “And it’d be worth the expense, if Peril-”

“I will shave your head,” she says. “You can’t buy more hair,  _ Cowboy. _ ”

He goggles at her, horrified, and she all but skips back to her and Illya’s suite. He’s still in the other room, at his pictures, so she finds a bottle of vodka, pours two measures, and throws back the first. 

She refills it, and wonders - how hard might it be to convince Illya to dance with her?


End file.
